


the tide

by norio



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 16:17:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8760199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norio/pseuds/norio
Summary: A short history of Akaashi's birthdays: ducking, wincing, hiding, shouting, flinching.





	

Akaashi had a slow, mullish dread over his birthday. The cake was fine, the presents pleasant, and the song a necessary evil. But ever since he met Bokuto Koutarou, his birthdays had become a terrifying date on the calendar, circled in blood red and highlighted in gruesome neon. Sometimes Bokuto would pencil ‘Keiji’s birthday!!!!!!’ underneath, a clear taunt to Akaashi’s brittle pride. 

When Akaashi opened his eyes on the fifth, he kept his hands above the blankets and stared at his ceiling. Only the thought of checking the fire extinguisher ousted him from the warm blankets, one foot reluctantly following the other onto the cold floor. After all, three years ago, Bokuto had burned the birthday cake. If he closed his eyes, he could still see the ominous dancing flames, and Bokuto standing there, baffled, while holding a spatula and frying pan. ‘Kiss the Cook,’ his apron had read, while Akaashi dove to extinguish the fire. 

He shuffled to the kitchen and peered around the corner. No flames, no heat. Promising. Even better, Bokuto was already dressed for work in his tracksuit, busy placing a small breakfast on the table. Akaashi padded across the hardwood floor. He wrapped his hands in his comfortable pajamas t-shirt and waited for the inevitable birthday caterwauling. 

“Keiji,” Bokuto said in a surprisingly modulated tone. “Hey! Happy birthday!” He leaned across the table for the ‘morning kissies,’ or as Akaashi liked to call them, ‘pandering to Koutarou’s worries by constantly showing affection on a scheduled basis.’ And they said romance was dead. Still, Akaashi kissed him and sat down for breakfast. 

“Got you a present,” Bokuto sang. “Open it, open it!” A short history of birthday presents catastrophes: the owl alarm clock that never stopped hooting, the owl teacup that broke apart in his hands, an autograph from a Vabo-chan, a promised hug from a Vabo-chan, a volleyball jack-in-the-box that gave him a black eye, a picture frame of Bokuto and Kuroo, an owl safe that had no combination and Bokuto’s keys locked inside, half a sandwich. He shouldn’t complain. At least he hadn’t been shaken away at midnight to have a happy birthday shouted in his ear, like the last two times. He could survive this, he told himself. 

The offending present could fit in his hand. Santas and reindeers dotted the loose wrapping paper, and they smiled at him while he unfurled a ribbon. When nothing wiggled away, he finally pulled out a small gray chip.

“It’s a tracker,” Bokuto said modestly. “That way, you can track me all the time! I mean, you have to check your phone and stuff, but then you’ll know where I am, even if I get lost. If you had this last week, at the grocery store, you’d find me right away.” 

“That’s.” Akaashi frowned. “Surprisingly helpful.” 

“Yeah? It’s good? A good present?” 

“Yeah. It’s good.” 

Bokuto hugged him from behind. The scent of soap mingled with his warmer undertones. Akaashi laid a hand on Bokuto’s firm arm. 

“Okay, I’m late to work,” Bokuto said into Akaashi’s hair. “Have a nice lunch with your parents. Say hi to them for me!” 

“You just want my mother to bring you more food.” His parents doted on Bokuto far more than they had coddled him as a child. For all their initial ‘so brash’ and ‘so impulsive’ murmurings and head shakes, his mother always asked if Akaashi was cooking enough for Bokuto, and his father heaved a slow sigh when he realized Bokuto wasn’t visiting, too. 

“Have a nice birthday, Keiji,” Bokuto said, and kissed his temple. In a stampede of shuffling shoes and fumbling through abandoned jackets, Bokuto left the apartment. Akaashi finished his breakfast and washed the plates. While he dressed for the lunch, he peeked at his phone. Other than the usual warm birthday wishes from his high school friends, his phone kept a solemn quiet. After Bokuto discovered time zones one year, he had insisted on wishing Akaashi a happy birthday in as many as possible. On that day, Akaashi realized Bokuto had a vast overestimation on the number of time zones in the world. Weeks later, he’d still receive a frantic birthday message from Bokuto. Hpdy bahdsya indeed, Bokuto at two in the godforsaken morning.

Akaashi dressed in his thick coat and boots, warding off the snow in his shuffled walk to the café. He arrived early. His parents had been waiting for a few minutes already, and Akaashi sighed into his flannel scarf. His mother handed him a bag of bright oranges. Make sure to save some for her son-in-law, she said, brow wrinkling, like her beloved son was nothing but a gigantic stomach. His father mentioned a hilarious comedic skit airing on television, arched eyebrows implying only Bokuto was invited to watch with him. Akaashi buried his face into the menu and ordered the house special. The conversation slid, like crashing furniture in a moving truck, to Akaashi’s job, his aspirations, and his health. Yes, he was properly cleaning the apartment. No, no dishes in the sink. Yes, thank you for the birthday well-wishes. Really, there was no need to worry about him. 

His mother had raised her eyebrows. Of course they weren’t worried about him. In fact, they were thought Akaashi had very much changed since high school, and they were proud of him. 

He lingered in the shopping mall and checked his messages. He half-expected a kind soul to message him with deep concerns about Bokuto’s suspicious behaviors, or alerting him about Bokuto tangling himself into murky trouble, or Bokuto’s hand getting stuck in some inauspicious wall for some inauspicious birthday-relevant reason. 

No new messages. 

He browsed a bookstore and purchased a new book. It was his birthday, which was blanket permission to add to his overflowing shelves. The park had a peaceful view of snow-coated trees and smiling snowmen, thin ice gliding over leaves, and a pearl sky cascading over a frozen cityscape. Akaashi ignored all of the above, thumbed out his reading glasses, and pounced on his book. 

Half a book later, a gentle thud-thud-thud woke him from his inked reverie. An idiot bounced a volleyball off his bare arms. The coat sleeves had been jammed to his elbows, but they crept down with every bounce. 

“Koutarou,” Akaashi said. Bokuto caught the volleyball in his hands and grinned. 

“Hey hey hey! I thought you wouldn’t be home until later,” Bokuto said. He jogged over to him. His nose and ears were already flushed red from the exercise. His bedraggled cuffs finally slumped to his wrists.

“I bought a book,” Akaashi said. 

“Another one?”

“It’s my birthday,” Akaashi said. Bokuto knelt in front of him and hugged the volleyball above his knees. 

“You’re going to replace me with books,” Bokuto said wistfully. “Mathwise, you’ve already done it. There are more books than me’s, Keiji. What kind of life is that?” 

“A good one.” Akaashi tucked the book into his lap. “My mother gave you some oranges.”

“Whoo-hoo!” Bokuto grinned. He squared his shoulders in anticipation for the juicy oranges. The lamp light trickled down his sleeve and pooled into the wrinkles. The dim light poured down the slope of his knuckles, which gripped the volleyball. Akaashi hunched over his knees to draw closer.

“Have I changed?” Akaashi asked. Bokuto blinked. 

“Yeah. Yeah, you have,” Bokuto said. “This morning, you were in your pajamas. Now you’re in your nice coat. Your pajamas were nice, too. You always look nice.” 

“No, I mean my personality.” 

“Oh.” Bokuto frowned. “No. Not really. Except you’re grumpier in the mornings.”

“Not like that. My mother said I’ve changed since high school.” Akaashi shrugged beneath his heavy layers. “I don’t think I’ve changed. In maturity, or anything else.” 

“Yeah, you’ve always been immature.” 

“Is that so,” Akaashi said. “And who lost their key five times?” 

“You’ve always been mean, too,” Bokuto said. He stood and spun the volleyball in his hands. “Let’s play, Keiji!” 

Volleyball could barely be played with two members, but never one alone. That was Akaashi’s theory that he’d developed over the years. He clasped his hands together and bumped the ball towards Bokuto. His coat and his sweater restricted his arms. His thick-soled boots clunked along the playground’s rubber mat, and he moved a step behind his mental image. But playing with Bokuto had always been comfortable. Years of practicing with him had left a deep imprint. Bokuto would step forward now, or jump back in another second, or leap to the side. Here, he would bend his legs like coiled pistons, and there, he would spread his arms for flight. Sometimes, Akaashi knew Bokuto’s muscles better than he knew himself. He could remember playing volleyball on another birthday, when a teammate collapsed in exhaustion. 

Akaashi caught the ball on Bokuto’s hurtling return. 

“I’m hungry,” he said, which wasn’t a lie. 

“Oh, me too,” Bokuto said. 

Bokuto carried Akaashi’s bag and book, which left Akaashi unlocking their apartment door. Standing in the hallway, frigid air blowing on his back, Akaashi frowned at his treacherous key. A series of surprise parties had pervaded his last birthdays. Always gaudy, always unnecessary, sometimes with piercing kazoos or flashing strobe lights. Worse yet, he would occasionally hear about the party days beforehand. Each subsequent day became a grueling wait for the balloons to drop. 

Akaashi threw open the door. The room remained dark. Bokuto barged through their short entranceway and toed off his shoes. 

“Cold,” Bokuto said. Akaashi draped his coat onto the hanger and grabbed his book again. Bokuto bustled in the kitchen. Akaashi half-expected a flatulence noise-maker beneath the sofa cushion, but he sank silently into the low seat. Perhaps the entire day had been a long set-up. When he finally relaxed, a thousand guests would spring from the ceilings and curtains. Their hollers of happy birthday would then disrupt the neighbors. Plaster would fall from their weight. Akaashi inspected their rows of trophies, using the reflections to spy into the corners of the room. 

“Dinner’s ready,” Bokuto said. “I bought your second favorite food! Nanohana with karashi dressing.” 

“What’s my first favorite food?”

“Me, of course.” 

Bokuto chatted about his day between stuffing his face with food. When the dinner dishes had been cleared, he brought out a small cake. A single candle flickered over the chocolate placard and glistening strawberries. 

“Is there a person inside this?” Akaashi asked. 

Bokuto, undeterred by Akaashi’s gentle suggestions, insisted on singing happy birthday. A tradition, he said, even when his off-key notes almost blew away the candle. Akaashi clamped his eyes shut. Since this was his birthday, he could indulge in two wishes. The first was ambiguous. He urged a bundle of formless and floating well-wishes onto Bokuto. He crammed together his gratefulness, affection, and admiration, all that warmed his heart, between the spaces of his fingers. He pictured Bokuto’s grinning face above the candle. For Bokuto, he thought. Give this kindness to Bokuto, the man he had chosen to love. 

His second wish was for himself. Onigiri for tomorrow’s lunch. Salmon, preferably, or tuna and mayonnaise. He wasn’t picky. 

He blew out the candle.

“Did you wish for an owl blanket?” Bokuto asked. 

“No.”

“Oh,” Bokuto said, face drawn in disappointment. 

The cake was soft in his mouth. The strawberries had a red tartness. Bokuto washed the dishes and Akaashi, still alert for birthday strangers, read his book on the sofa again. He tore himself from the pages when he heard the balcony door click open. In the winter, he typically sealed the rattling door closed. Bokuto, however, had stepped outside. The bright light of his cell phone shone through the glass door. Akaashi grabbed a thick blanket and crept outside into the muffling silence.

“You’ll catch a cold,” he said, draping the blanket over Bokuto’s shoulders. “Come inside. Have an orange.” His seduction techniques were critically acclaimed.

“Oh yeah,” Bokuto said, scrolling on his phone. “Thank your mother for me.”

“We can make plans with my parents for later this week, if you’d like.”

“Sure. But not tomorrow,” Bokuto said, thumb paused on his screen. “We’re having a late birthday dinner with our friends tomorrow. Remember?” 

“I remember.” Akaashi was the record-keeper of the family. He could recall Bokuto hammering at his door the day after a birthday. Bokuto had threatened to flood Akaashi’s house with tears for missing Akaashi’s special day. Since then, Akaashi accepted Bokuto’s extravagant birthday celebrations in return for never having to argue Bokuto down for another ten hours. His desperate lies about make-up birthdays and extended birthdays still lingered in his mind. 

“Hey, I got the page! See, this shows what the sky looked like when you were born.” Bokuto tilted the screen. “The stars were nice, huh.” 

“You’re certainly putting effort into this,” Akaashi said. He sat beside him and pulled the blanket over his shoulder. Bokuto’s phone warmed his hands. He squinted at the sky above, seeking straight formations in the tangles of stars. 

“Because I love you,” Bokuto said. “Wait, that’s not it.”

“Is that so.” Akaashi tried to sound stern instead of amused. 

“Wait, wait, I do love you! I love you, I love you, I love you. It’s just more than that. You do a lot for me, Keiji. I just want to give a little back, that’s all.” Bokuto shrugged and stared at the sky. Akaashi thought Bokuto had a sharp face in high school, too. A mouth quick to smile. Round eyes, thin pupils staring ahead. 

“I told you, you don’t have to worry about that,” Akaashi said. He brushed his cold knuckles against Bokuto’s cheekbone. 

“I know. I know, but I still want to say thanks. Because you take care of the other stuff, because I know you’re there for me, because you’ll clear a path, I can be me.” Bokuto’s mouth slanted into a firm frown. “It’s more than that, too. I really, really love you.” 

“Really really,” Akaashi said. 

“Really really really!” 

“I doubted you before,” Akaashi said, curling his fingers around his warmed wedding band. “But now that you’ve said that extra really, I’m utterly convinced.” 

“Really?”

“Really really.” Akaashi rested his arm on Bokuto’s shoulder. “Your phone shows the Winter Triangle. Can you see it in the sky?” 

“Anything can be a triangle if you try hard enough,” Bokuto said sadly. With that adage, they stumbled through the stars. Akaashi found Betelgeuse first, Procyon and Sirius following. He drew the lines with his pointer finger and captured the small stars beneath his fingertips. Their balcony faced a slow-running ravine, where Bokuto collected smooth skipping stones. The river lipped towards a distant stretch of apartments. The vague glow from department stores and love hotels washed into the sky, but the stars still shone above them. His fingers had grown numb and his ears ached, but he huddled close to Bokuto and measured galaxies with his thumb.

Their quiet apartment became a warm relief. Akaashi clenched his hands over his red ears and Bokuto kissed him with a cold mouth. On the bed, Akaashi pressed Bokuto’s icy hands underneath the warm folds of his sweatshirt. During Akaashi’s birthdays in university, Bokuto would bring along lists of magazine suggestions. Ice cubes, toothpicks, ill-begotten dish sponges, sour-flavored condoms, a bewildering array of bad magic tricks. Akaashi tensed when Bokuto stretched for the dresser, and relaxed when Bokuto only knuckled Akaashi’s glasses away from the edge. In the dark silhouette, Akaashi traced the mature lines of Bokuto’s face. 

Bokuto took Akaashi into his mouth easily. Years of practice, Akaashi supposed. Akaashi’s shirt had been shoved to his chest and Bokuto curved his rough hand on the curve of Akaashi’s hip. Akaashi still found novelty in a quiet Bokuto, when the headboards weren’t rammed into the wall and Bokuto wasn’t groaning Keiji, Keiji, Keiji, hitching into a moaning drawl, a demanding whine, a guttural bite. 

“Koutarou,” Akaashi said. Bokuto blinked and pulled off wetly. 

“Yeah?” Bokuto swayed forward to listen. Akaashi bit the inside of his cheek. He had only wanted to say Bokuto’s name, but admitting that would feel too young and too innocent. He slid his hand across Bokuto’s jaw and slipped a finger into his mouth. 

With Bokuto buried between his legs, Akaashi took to playing with his hair. He pushed a few strands over the parting and pinned back those that fell across Bokuto’s forehead. He could feel Bokuto smile beneath him. 

Later, in his pajamas, Akaashi finished his book in bed. From the parted door, he could see Bokuto piling the oranges in the center of the table. 

“Cold,” Bokuto mumbled when he crawled under their blankets. Akaashi snapped his glasses shut and flicked off the lamp. Bokuto curled around him, arm falling square against Akaashi’s chest. The suffocating body heat in summer became treasured warmth in winter. 

The moonlight fell to the corner, where Bokuto kept his basket of stones. They had been smoothed by the water. The rough granules had slipped into a seamless flow. Akaashi would run his fingers over the silky stones and hold the weight in his hand. 

“So many years,” Akaashi said. Bokuto must have been falling asleep, because he shifted in the bed. Akaashi rubbed Bokuto’s knuckles in apology. The green numbers on their alarm clock ticked down. 

“Years?” Bokuto murmured into Akaashi’s neck. His voice was scratchy. 

“Of being loved,” Akaashi said.

The snow fell in silent droves and the moon tinted the apartment an indistinct blue. On the desk, Akaashi’s phone sat beside the gray tracker. Akaashi understood time zones, but he thought the whole world must be asleep. His pillow was soft. The blanket was warm. Bokuto curved behind his back, with holding him across his side. Akaashi closed his eyes.

“Keiji,” he heard a sheepish mutter, “I didn’t want to ruin your birthday, but today, accidentally, I did break three of your good plates.”

“Finally,” Akaashi said. He pulled Bokuto’s arm across his chest, and slept.


End file.
